


Long Awaited Visit

by TheTalkingPeanut



Series: Now I'm a Man; Yours [2]
Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, M/M, Romance, three word prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalkingPeanut/pseuds/TheTalkingPeanut
Summary: Based on a Three-Word Prompt from the Discord Chuckletown: Paint, Mirror, Rain.Bruce is Finally eighteen. An official adult. No one can tell him 'No' when it comes to the visit he's so desperately been waiting for years to have...(A continuation of 'Late Night Conversation')
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne
Series: Now I'm a Man; Yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665307
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Long Awaited Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is inspired by a three-word prompt on the Discord Server of Chuckletown! (Here's the invite link if you wanna join!!   
> https://discord.gg/V7fT7Y6 ) Words were:
> 
> Paint  
> Mirror  
> Rain
> 
> It also accidentally became a continuation from the previous three-word prompt from the same server <3

Bruce picks up the receiver, hits the button and waits for the other end to answer. He stares daggers at the back of the butler’s head in the meantime.

Two short rings, he picks up. “Sir?”

“Go the speed limit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The speed limit, Alfred. I’d like to be faster than a power-walking grandma.”

He  _ sees _ the shoulders slump through the limousine’s window while hearing the sigh via the phone. It doesn’t phase him; he’s prepared for this.

“That is what I have been doing, Sir.”

“No, you haven’t. And don’t bother saying anything to the contrary because I’m not an idiot. Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing since before crossing the bridge.”

Straight forward. Blunt. To the point. Bruce told himself that this was how he was going to handle any problem that would approach him on his way to the hospital. It didn’t matter in what shape or form the problem came in or who it came from - the result would ultimately be the same; taken care of head-on and immediately. Done.

Bruce is just sick of this. Of everyone. He’s done.

Alfred answered with stony silence. He kept the phone to his ear as Bruce knew he would, which was his way of saying ‘You do understand I am listening to you? No matter what mood you’re in I  _ am _ listening. I’m here.’ Which is normally fine. Dandy. Wonderful. Great. Just what an angsty teen needs. 

Well, this time is no different, to a certain degree. Due to the older man being part of the problem, Bruce had a lot to say.

“The slow to take off when the lights change, the coasting, the refusal to change lanes when an opportunity arises therefore ‘missing’ the exit--need I go on? I’ve counted fifty-two cars who have passed us and not out of curiosity to see who’s in the limo.”

Alfred’s head turned slightly, there was a  _ tsk, _ then, “Ridiculous.”

“I may not know Sign Language, Alfred. But I sure as hell know what the middle finger means, and it’s not ‘Have a nice day.’”

Alfred looks at him through the front rear-view mirror. “Depends on whom you speak to.”

“Alfred,” Bruce says with a raised voice. He wants this conversation to be taken seriously. It’s high time he sets his own dominance and position properly. After all; he’s officially an adult now. No more excuses from anyone. 

“Drive the speed limit.” And with that he hangs up his end of the phone. 

Bruce watches the butler glance at the phone in his hand, then back to the mirror. The young billionaire gives him one glare then crosses his arms and legs to spend the rest of the trip watching the Gothamites pass by outside his window.

He’s shaking, though trying to hide it. He read somewhere that taking slow, deliberate breaths can help master your own body. To control it against unwanted reactions. He’s practicing this now as he has been for a few years.

He’s never spoken quite like that to Alfred before. Never snapped at him. Asserted himself. He can’t help but be secretly terrified of what his father-figure must think of him right now. [He knows it will kill him if anything should change to the negative between them from here on.]

He expected Alfred to roll down the partition that separates them in order to directly speak to his Ward. To ask him the reason for his outburst. Why’s he so determined to be near ‘a madman’? Remind him that although he’s the butler he’s still the one taking care of him. Watching out for him. There when he needs him - just  _ something. _ Say something.

Not.  _ This. _ This silent treatment. It’s eating at him. Making his leg wiggle.

Did Bruce go too far? Had he done it wrong? He felt the pull of the vehicle increase in speed just as he had requested, which excited him that something he had insisted on had been followed through with. And yet…

And yet he can’t shake the guilt that it was manipulated...

It wasn’t as if Alfred wasn’t taking him to the hospital at all. He was. Just passive-aggressively. But he was, in fact, taking him. And that in itself was something.

God, he hadn’t been an adult for very long and already it’s cost.

Bruce touches a button on his side counsel. The partition lowers with a hum. They are approaching the hospital and he wants to settle this before arrival. Or it’ll eat at him during his long-awaited visit and that’s the last thing he wants for this big day.

He takes a moment to collect his thoughts on what to say, rubbing his brow. Alfred still says nothing, seemingly waiting for him to speak first. Fair enough.

“I know you mean well,” Bruce started with something safe. “and I… I’m not specifically mad at you or anything. In case you were wondering. It’s only that, I’m eighteen now, Alfred. I want to be taken more seriously. If I say I want something, or need something done, I’m not asking for it lightly. You know me better than that.”

He catches Alfred’s gaze from the mirror and holds it. He speaks directly to the reflected eyes then on. “I know you don’t want this. You’ve made it very clear - as has the rest of Gotham - how much you dislike him. But… Trust me in my decision making, please? Even if you don’t agree with it, like now? It’s what I want, what… what I need. And one thing I need is for you to continue to be that one person who’s always on my side.”

The eyes that stare back at him now have softened. Though feel older then coming from the face they are shown from. 

He watches Alfred look back to the road, a weight neither lifting nor settling between them. Just, changing.

“I just don’t understand why you insist on wanting to see this ‘Maniac’,” Alfred says low. It’s honest but not hurtful. Alfred truly doesn’t get it. That’s understandable. The truth is Bruce doesn’t fully know himself.

Bruce sighs, “I know, Alfred.”

“I care about you, Master Bruce. I only want what’s best for you.” 

The statement made him flinch. He knows it’s the truth, better than anyone else. From Alfred, that’s the only thing the man wants in life now. He makes it clear everyday. It’s only the line is so incredibly rehearsed and Bruce has heard it more times than he’s ever heard ‘I love you’ spoken to him that it almost struck him as funny to hear it now when he was trying to make a position for himself.

“I know.”

\------------------------

The imposing hospital loomed ahead. Its whitewashed paint job clashing with everything that Bruce knew was going on behind the thick stone walls that held ‘Gotham’s Unwanteds’ inside.

\--No one liked him calling the residents of the hospital the _ Unwanteds _ . Wasn’t correct, or polite they said. They didn’t scold him too often, however. Being someone of privilege. So he would test his limits around others to see how far he could get away with it. He didn’t come up with the name on his own. Arthur told it to him. Said that’s how everybody secretly refers to them as.  _ Unwanteds. The Useless. Wasteful. _ Bruce thought it disgusting and began to throw it back at them. Oh, how he loved to watch them cringe when their own invented names would come out of an innocent babe who ‘knew nothing’.

He reveled in that.

He would later tell Arthur all about it in one of their many clandestine phone calls. The other man would just laugh. Bruce took it that he was proud of him. But he found out sometime later that he laughed because he thought Bruce was a cute kid.

Cute. Kid.

He had been about fourteen then. Possibly thirteen. But it was then, in that particular conversation, when he heard those two offensive words why it sent such a volcanic rage into his bloodstream. A clarity came to him so vast Bruce literally had to sit down on the floor to keep from falling.

He was unequivocally in love with Arthur, and had been the whole time.

At first Bruce was afraid. Not because of who Arthur was or what he did, but because he knew if anyone found out - such as Alfred - they would not approve. And there was a very high chance Bruce may have all connections severed from the other man permanently before a stronger connection could be made. Or, even a confession.

And the very idea of having another person forcefully taken away from Bruce…

Was not an option he would allow to exist while he breathed.--

Bruce’s heartbeat doubled in speed. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward. Eyes glued to the front doors of the structure. The world outside slowed.

He was here. He was finally, _ finally _ here. After so long of fantasizing, planning. Imagining over the phone for so many years what their first meeting alone - again - would be like. How much Arthur has changed--how much he’d notice Bruce has grown up. 

What will happen? Will he want to touch him? Will he allow Bruce to? Can he… hold him? Tell him everything that’s been building all these years? Get Arthur to understand how his eyes have never left him; they’ve followed him in dreams, in shadows, crowds. He’s a prisoner to him. But he waltzed into the cell himself, willingly. He’s never stopped loving him and he has no intention of terminating whatever they have, but intends to make it stronger now that he’s his own man. So, what does Arthur think of that? 

Fuck, his brain his swirling with too many first-time incentives to try.

Bruce’s thoughts were preoccupied with the moment to come that it took him till nearly Alfred parking the limousine in front to notice the massive crowd swarming up to greet him.

He had forgotten about this part. The press.  _ The leeches _ . They had gotten wind of what he was going to do today - and more specifically, whom he wanted to talk to - and there was nothing on this green Earth that would take them away from such a ‘sensational story!’

Whatever. This is nothing Bruce isn’t already used to. They’ve always been around every corner flashing a bulb since his memory could serve him, but it only became feeding-frenzy level once his parents were ripped from him. Now, the poor little orphan child is the sole heir of millions. 

What will he do now? How is he faring? 

_ … Is he dating yet? _

Savages. Heartless feeders. Alfred, bless him, has done his best to protect him from their onslaught. But it never ends. They’re a circus.

And today is no different, just as Arthur said it would be. 

_ “Little Bruce Wayne, all grown up. And what does he want to do? Come and see the crazed clown in the nuthouse. What a circus that will be!” _

“I don’t care,” Bruce whispers to himself. Both hands clenched into fists now. He grinds his teeth. “I’m coming.”

The limo rolls to a stop. Bruce feels a rush of panic. 

There’s not just press here.

There’s clowns. Everywhere. With a mixture of painted faces and that, that--that mask. That  _ fucking mask _ . Green tufts of hair. Round red nose. Garish fake smile. 

Black empty eyes.

No. No, no, not today. No. Why do they have to be here today? Of all days?

Bruce sees their mouths moving - on the ones that are visible anyways - shouting words, most likely profanity. They’re facing him. Staring hate. Shaking fists. Promising violence. Holding signs.

They’ve never changed. After all these years, they’ve never once changed. It doesn’t matter Bruce has done nothing to them, never harmed them or raised a finger or voice against them. It’s the Sins of the Father they will mot forgive. The damage is done.

He loves Arthur, but they’re too blind with hate to care. This is bad.

Bruce readies himself, taking these precious moments to calm his nerves before exiting the car. He’s going to do this. He’s going to do this. Arthur’s waiting for him. Just do it. Don’t look at the masks. Charge forward. Get to the door. Get to him. He can do this.

The young multi-millionaire inhales deeply and pushes the door open, stepping out quickly.

The attack is instantaneous. Shouting, questions, flashing light bulbs. Bodies bumping into him while trying to shove something in his face. He tunes them out and focuses on the door. Doctors and aids await him on the front step. He narrows in on them.

Someone grabs the lapel of his coat and tugs him, trying to swallow him into the crowd. He stumbles. Not getting time to counterbalance. His mind screams at him but it happens too fast, panic-panic--

The hand on him is ripped and shoved away. He’s yanked back into a solid body who charges through the sea of people towards the Arkham staff. They hold an arm out to shield Bruce from the flashing cameras.

He doesn’t need to look to confirm who rescued him. The Old Spice/Spearmint mixture is unmistakable, besides the accent spoken low in his ear gave him away, “I’m sorry, Sir. I would have been there sooner but I had a spot of trouble with my side of the door.”

Bruce smiled, “It’s okay, Alfred. At least you got some action.”

Alfred gave him a look. “Really, Sir.”

It was a double-entendre. Bruce knew what Alfred meant; that he ended up having to get a bit rough with some members of the crowd in order to rush to his side. They always made it difficult for him.

Due to situations like this, Bruce had insisted Alfred train him as he had been trained in his days in the military. The butler didn’t consent to this for years but Bruce was nothing if not persistent. So the two would train. Another way for them to bond. Alfred was amazed how well Bruce took to the routines and how dedicated he was to practicing them. He soon wanted to learn more. But that would be for the future. For now, this will do.

However, he’s also discovered that using these techniques as a member of ‘High Society’ is not what the public eye sees as a positivity. Publicity is too easy to turn negative, twisted. So he’s discovered using them outside the home is not safe.

Family name and reputation, and all that.

They agreed Bruce can continue to learn since he’s a natural and keeps him fit and happy, but will continue to have ‘bodyguards’ when out and about.

That namely being Alfred. 

Now, the _ other _ meaning of what he said… well.

Bruce is eighteen. Just like everyone else, he’s a little shit.

Security (about time) rushed out to try and push back and calm the paparazzi and rabble-rousing that was escalating. At that point, Bruce made it to the doors.

_ Fucking late, where were you? _ Fumed the multi-millionaire. _ This is only Security. What the hell are the Guards and Staff like? _ \--

**“Hey, Wayne.”**

Bruce’s heart stopped. He knows it stopped, it must have. Or it’s stabbed with an icicle. He’s stiff, can’t breathe. He feels his eyes bulging. There’s no sound. No sound. Chilled down to the toes. Alfred frowns at him.

That voice. That--that voice. He knows it. He fears it. It hurts him. Hurt them. It’s ripping his flesh off and laughing. No. No, nonono. 

He’s here. Here. Why? Why today? Why now? What does he want now?

_ You get what you fucking deserve. _

Bruce gasps and spins, eyes wide, searching.  _ Where are you, you bastard? _

He didn’t see it hit. It happened too quickly. The impact is wide, fast. The aim is alarmingly well done.

He’s knocked back by the shock of it, stunned by how cold it is. Bruce is blank, he can’t think to move. He’s not sure what happened but can sense Alfred and some others around him yelling and scrambling out into the crowd. 

No. No, Alfred is next to him. Talking. He’s worried. Hands on him, checking him over. Bruce’s head is too fogged to answer right away. 

He feels… wet. Sopping wet. It smells with a distinct odor. Chemically. Very bright color, hurts his eyes…

Wait, no. No color. It’s white. Bruce is covered in white. He tastes it on his lips. Dabs a tongue out to test.

Paint. That’s it, that’s all. Bruce is covered in white paint. He scans his front; it’s everywhere from what he can see. Sound returns. He looks up.

The paparazzi are testing the limits of their cameras. They’re in a frenzy; Pirhanas to meat. Bruce stands there, dumb. Giving them what they want. Others are laughing. The voice lingers in his head. Over the crowd.

A staff member and Alfred both grab one of his arms and steer him inside. Once there, in this different world, Bruce forces his head to clear. He shakes it, and breathes. Focuses on the garish tiles on the floor.

A doctor approaches him, begins an apologetic speech while orderlies hand Alfred and himself something to help wipe the access paint off.

Several staff members take this opportunity to try and wipe the young man down as well. Bruce notices and starts a slow burn...

The doctor rattling on: “Mr. Wayne, I apologize for this atrocity. Some of those people have started gathering out there as early as two days ago and they’ve done nothing but gain in numbers. That’s all. We’ve tried to remove them from the premises but nothing seems to work. They keep coming back. I swear to you we told no one of your arrival or of this meeting. I… I truly am at a loss for words how any of them found out…”

“It’s fine,” Bruce mutters. Feeling a boiling sensation rise up through his abdomen. He brushes the hands-off only for them to return. Like flies. 

“I swear to you, my staff and I have treated this with the utmost secrecy. Luckily they don’t seem to be here for violence--”

“Yes, I got it.” There’s too much contact. Stop touching.  _ Too much. _

“These sorts of things do not occur on a regular basis, I can promise you that. Security will be on top of it and handle it with a firmer--”

**_“STOP!”_ **

The order echoes down the halls, bounces in the open space and reverberates back to meet them. All within range - human or otherwise - still in movement, silence in breath. All is too quiet. Like a grave.

Bruce didn’t mean to bark that loud. He didn’t even know he had it in him. All eyes were on him, but only that. The hands had fallen away. He’s fine with this. Now he’s back in familiar territory.

He speaks to the doctor, “Please, where’s your restroom? I wish to freshen up in peace.”

“Oh,” the man blinked, “It’s right over here, uh. I’ll have David show you the way.”

“Thank you.” Bruce walks off in the vague direction the doctor gestures. Orderly David scampers to keep up.

He didn’t need an ‘escort’ to the restroom. This is ridiculous. 

Once they arrive Bruce gives a brief ‘thanks’ and makes his way in. Then, he stands and waits for several seconds just in case his babysitter follows him inside. He doesn’t. If he did, Bruce might’ve snapped.

Thankfully, the vibe he sent out must have been enough to ward the poor guy from wanting to test the young man’s patience anymore.

Bruce releases a heavy sigh, and turns to the mirror. He pulls out some paper towels and wets them under the sink then - and only then - does he bother to check out the damage of his reflection.

The splash isn’t what he expected. White coated his front, yes, but off-center. Uneven. It covered one shoulder but only flecked the other. He almost laughed--it looked like a fashion statement and he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if soon after (when the pictures are released in the papers) three-piece suits would suddenly start churning out something very similar.

God. What sheep. 

His smile fell when he looked at his face. That too, was painted white. Startling white. His breathing increased. Became rapid. He brought fingertips up to touch his cheeks to see if it all was real. 

He doesn’t know why it bothers him. But it does. He… he’s missing. Bruce is gone. And that’s not what he’s been working so hard on. To find who he is, what he wants. That’s why he’s here. Isn’t he? _ At Arkham _ to see Arthur. Not to lose himself. But prove to Arthur, prove to him that he’s… he’s a…

His hands fall. A what? An adult? Oh yes. He looks so mature and collected in his mess.

Bruce clenches his teeth. “Every time I move forward some shit moves me back,” he says to his reflection. “Well fuck you. Not today. I won’t give up, I won’t crawl away. I don’t care how many times you people fight me I will succeed.”

He unclenches his fists which had formed on their own. His palms are marked with his fingernails. Whatever.

Bruce gets to quick work scrubbing the now-hardening paint off his face. His suit is a lost cause. As it dries he finds patting it causes it to flake off. Most stays. That’s fine. He’s still going to see Arthur no matter how he’s dressed. That’s not him; Arthur will understand.

\----------------------------

The gramophone in the visiting room sang Bach through its loud horn on a clean, smooth vinal. The notes are clear, beautiful, and so obviously newly purchased it’s pissing Bruce off the longer it’s on.

He can tell, by the bewildered looks on the few ‘inmates’ that are remembered to have someone visit them, that this is not normal protocol entertainment for them. Even the visiters themselves seem confused about the new change. However, pleased.

They’ve done this for his benefit. Sugarcoating the pleasantries of how nice it is to come to Arkham and see someone for half a day or less. 

But he knows better, all thanks to speaking to Arthur long before ever coming here. Arthur doesn’t tell him everything, but he’s told him enough for him to know this is all a disgusting charade.

So, here Bruce sits, slouching in a metal chair, arms crossed with a leg that won’t stop bouncing. Scowling.

Barely ten minutes waiting and he’s already in a sour mood. The paint smell isn’t helping things in the slightest.

Bruce checks his watch. What is taking so long to bring him here? He huffs out his nose and tries to set fire to a  _ Tomorrow is Another Day! _ poster with his mind.

He had planned for a private room for the two of them, but Arthur only scoffed at him for it. Saying things like ‘Why would you want that?’ and ‘Oh, I doubt they’d let me be alone in a room with you.’ All Bruce could ever think to that was ‘Oh, they have it wrong, Arthur. It’s the other way around…’ But since he was thoroughly teased about it, Bruce acquiesced to the usual visiting room. Although he wishes he still made it private.

The backdoor opens. Bruce sits to attention, his jaw drops. The world becomes a tunnel vision as  _ he _ enters.

Bruce’s heart pounds, expands. Arthur hasn’t changed at all. He feels lightheaded, can’t feel his body. But it’s true. Arthur is the same. Just as delicate. Everything he remembers. My God, he must be dreaming. It’s not possible. Hoe could he not change?

Arthur floats in front of his vision. Grace at its finest. His head is down - Bruce mentally begs him to look up. Demands it.

He does. Those eyes scan the room lazily - aren’t they as eager to find him as he is? - they spot him and he stills for half a second. Bruce catches his breath. Is… is he surprised to see him? Happy? Shocked? Does he recognize him? Want him? Longed for him as he has?

Bruce can’t get his mind to work properly. Too many overlapping thoughts are crashing into themselves up there. He just wants Arthur to come here. To come nearer. Or should he go over to him? Fuck, he hates not knowing what to do.

Eventually, after eons of painstaking nothingness, Arthur smiles. His eyes light up--twin stars. And something in Bruce explodes out and fills every crevice. He feels warm and complete. Arthur walks over. Something wet falls down his cheek.

The metal clinks, its shine catches his eye. Bruce’s dream is instantly destroyed as he’s brought back down to be reminded of where he is. What is happening. What they’ve done.

Arthur makes his way over completely shackled; wrists, waist, ankles. Just like an animal.

Bruce sees red.

“Hi,” says Arthur in his usual soft-spoken way. He sits down in the chair opposite him, never once taking those eyes off the younger man.

Bruce doesn’t answer right away, he’s too fixated on the restraints to speak. Too enraged.

“I specifically told them not to put you in any cuffs.” It comes out almost as a low growl.

A tiny gasp - barely audible - escapes Arthur, but he covers it with a smile. “You didn’t honestly think they were going to listen to everything you ordered, did you?” There’s amusement in his tone.

Bruce looks at him. “Yes.”

The older man breaks out in a breathy laughing, Bruce blushes. “This is your first visit, Bruce. Gotham’s Golden Boy coming to see the Big Bad Evil inside the crazy house and you thought they’d let me run free? That’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Stop calling me cute.”

Nothing enraged him more than when Arthur called him ‘cute’. When feelings run deeper, ‘cute’ doesn’t work.

“But you are--”

“No, I’m a man. In case you didn’t notice,” Bruce huffed.

Arthur brought a nail to his teeth which made him look coy. Whether he meant to look that way or not, it was having its effect on Bruce all the same. He crossed those long legs of his and eyed him over. “I noticed.”

Bruce swallowed hard. Fuck. He should have insisted on a private room.

He forgot what to say, so he just repositioned himself instead. He imagined himself being much more assertive than this…

“Love the suit.”

That snapped him back. He caught Arthur’s eye and the bastard is turning red with humor.

Bruce cleared his throat, touching his coat. “Yeah. Courtesy from one of your friends outside.”

“I don’t have any friends, I’ve told you this.”

“Your followers, Egghead. I don’t think they like me seeing you. Can’t imagine why.”

Arthur laughs and takes out an unlit cigarette from his front pocket. Bruce remembered that Arthur had requested if he could bring a lighter for him to use for such an occasion. He did and took it out to help light the end of it. Heat rose to Bruce’s face when Arthur leaned in. Something about it turned him on and he didn’t know why.

“So,” Bruce says while fiddling with the lighter, “Can you tell me why your people thought it necessary to douse me in paint?”

A small chuckle, then “You make it seem like I have any sort of control over them.”

“Well, yeah. They’re your followers, your people.”

“So?”

Bruce gestures an arm out. “So… so there! So exactly! They follow you! Your example! You’re the leader, you tell them what to do and they listen! So, why’d they do it?”

“Bruce, I have no control over them. I never did.”

“I… what?” Now Bruce was confused.

He can see Arthur is fully enjoying this. “I never made them; they made themselves. Sure, they took my likeness but that’s it. What I’ve done and what I do has nothing to do with them. I’m not a part of them. Never have been. They like me? That’s great. It’s a free country, right? Symbolism is important. But I swear to you, kid, whatever they do is not associated with me. I have no more control or contact with them than I do with how the sun rises and sets every day.”

Bruce ponders this. One major thing nags at him so he pics that out. “Don’t call me kid.”

The first uproarious laugh pours out of the other man. Throwing his head back and drawing his legs in, Bruce can see that of all that he spilled out, Arthur really is amused that that’s what bugged Bruce most of all. Like a goddamn broken record.

It was funny. Bruce felt the bubbles of a giggle rise but they never quite surfaced once he noticed the man standing in the back, watching them intently. He’s dressed as a staff member but there’s something utterly menacing about the way he watches them… like they’re specimens for dissection…

It’s almost perverted.

Arthur must have noticed how Bruce is squirming in his seat. His laughing stopped abruptly. “What? What is it?” he says feather-soft.

“That, that man back there,” Bruce keeps his voice low and keeps glancing at him. Bruce doesn’t want to look at him but it’s making his skin crawl to not. “He keeps staring at us.”

“Oh, really?” 

“No don’t!” Arthur turns to look before Bruce can stop him. He gives a nice long, blatant stare back at the person then turns around with a bright chuckle. He shakes his head, genuinely entertained by it all.

He thumbs back at the guy, not caring how clear he’s making it. “That’s Crane.”

Bruce sits stunned. “Wait,  _ that’s _ Crane?”

“Yeah!” Arthur nods. “The intern I keep telling you about. The one who works for Walker. I figured it would be some time before you two would meet but, nah. Congratulations, Bruce! You get to see the oddball sooner than later!”

“...why is he here?”

Arthur shrugs, takes a puff on the cigarette. “Maybe he heard about you coming and wanted to see you in person. He is a curious guy.”

Bruce studies Crane. The man is making evident he is watching them. Almost unblinking. Just standing there, not coming closer. Not speaking to anyone, not…

Wait. Oh. Wait.

The multi-millionaire’s face slackens when it hits him. His blood chills at the realization. He’s not sure how to take this, or what to do with this. He doesn’t like it. It’s making him upset, angry, or… scared?

There is something so wrong with this guy… what’s going to happen to…

“Bruce?”

“H-he’s not staring at ‘us’,” Bruce tries to say steady. He locks deep into Arthur’s eyes letting his worries show. “He’s been staring at you.”

They sit silent, unmoving for several seconds. Then Arthur cracks a grin. “Well. That explains a lot.”

Before Bruce can ask him what those distressful words mean, an alarm rattles off loud throughout the room, soon followed by the eruption of the fire sprinklers bursting to life.

Wards, staff, patients, etc. start screaming and running in surprise to the sudden hit of cold water raining down upon them. It’s chaos all over.

But Arthur and Bruce keep sitting, gazing at one another.

Bruce doesn’t care it’s happening, but eventually acknowledges it. He glances around.

“What’s happening?”

“Oh, that would be Larry,” Arthur says casually, still trying to smoke something that is now a hopeless cause. Eyes never leaving the younger man.

“Larry?”

“Uh-huh. He’s obsessed with the fire alarm. Sets it off all the time. Says he loves it when it ‘rains inside’. Heh, I think, thanks to him, we have the best working sprinkling pipes in Gotham.”

Arthur flicks the cig away and stands. Bruce watches, motionless, as Arthur - though fully chained - starts a slow dance in the sprinklers. Hands reached up as far as they can go, palms spread wide, head tilted back, smiling. Water clings to his long lashes. He twirls. The puddles of water fly up, circling him. His white uniform becomes transparent, formfitting to his skin.

It’s a strange, almost hellish first visit. Nothing to what Bruce imagined it to be. Fantasized it to be. Thanks to the alarm, it ended being cut short. When he left, the press took even more snapshots of his wet dog look. He knew he looked miserable. A wretched thing. But, what would one expect from visiting Arkham? A day of sunshine and daisies? 

It’s funny. Well and truly funny. But…

Was it worth it?

“Yes,” Bruce exhales in the limo, closing his eyes, thinking back to when he was entranced by the vision before him. His heart flutters; a bird in a cage. “It was worth it. All of it.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So, there it is. Didn't mean it to be this long, geez. But I ramble...
> 
> It's my birthday today so I'll clean it up and stuff later. And post the link to the previous part once I can. Just wanted to get this up first :)
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think <3<3<3


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